The War Storm and Baldy the Horse

War, in modern times, comes like a lightning flash. Seven thousand

German automobiles, loaded with soldiers, rushed over the Belgian

border. The Uhlans galloped in by other wagon roads, and twenty army

corps, in swift trains, followed. Belgium was desolated by fire and

sword. The Liège forts, once thought impregnable, were reduced to

rubbish. Louvain was given to the flames.

What awful odds! Only 68,000 men of all arms, in the Belgian Service,

to stand against the onrush of hordes! Yet they did. Day by day, the

Belgians wondered! Where were the Allies, that had promised to help

them? Where were the red coats, or the khaki of the English, or the

kilts of the Scotch, or the “invisible blue” of the French poilus? Had

any one heard a sound of the bagpipes?

During those six weeks, before the British guns fired a shot, or the

French sent reinforcements, the Belgian soldiers fought on, contesting

the possession of their native soil, inch by inch. Many a time the

machine-gun batteries drove off the German Uhlans and destroyed both

the gunners and horses of their batteries; each time retreating in

order and safety, though many a comrade of Emile’s was missing. City

after city fell, until Brussels was occupied. It was thought that

Antwerp could be saved, though the garrison was very small. Some

English marines had come to help; and more, yes, a big army, was

coming. So every one said.

So Emile and the other gunners braced up. They were again full of

courage, when ordered to defend a narrow road, which was really a dyke,

or causeway, with mud fields on either side, but commanding the main

road, over which the German artillery must come. Here, with what

military men call an enfilading fire, they could open on the Germans.

They were given this post the night before, with only haversack

rations.

The next morning, when breakfast, and a cold one, was hardly over, and

the dogs had been drawn out of the shafts and sent to the rear, the

German train of guns was heard in the distance thundering towards them.

The Huns must go straight ahead; for, on either side of the brick paved

road, were the ditches and destruction.

“’Twill be a hot fight, but keep cool, gentlemen,” cried the officer

in command, “then, at the right moment, let every shot tell.”

“Crack, crack, crack!” The machine-guns opened and sheets of lead and

fire swept a wide area. Bullets, not by hundreds but thousands, were

showered upon horses, men, caissons and guns. Within five minutes, half

of that German battery was a wreck. The dead horses and men, of the

three forward cannon of the six, were piled on top of each other, or

were rolling and plunging over the dyke. The others behind had to halt.

Emile noticed that one of the horses, from the German battery, drawing

the front gun had been stung by a ball that scraped his flank. Part of

the wooden tongue and whiffle tree had been shot away. They were

dangling behind him, as he dashed madly forward.

This horse was no other than Baldy. Instantly recognizing his old pet,

Emile waved his hand to the gunners of his company to spare the animal.

He ran forward, shouting “Baldy, Baldy.”

The horse stopped and sniffed the air; but at the strange uniform,

halted, even while he cocked his ear, awaiting further developments.

Emile took in the situation at once, for he too had “horse sense.”

Jumping down along the grassy sides of the dyke, he picked off enough

white flowers to stick between his fingers and in his palm, so as to

look like salt. Then in Walloon talk, he tried his old trick of

enticing Baldy. As if in front of a phonograph, this four legged

creature that had, for years, heard only German words, for “halt” or

“back” or “get up,” moved his head sideways, first to the right, then

up to the left, then down, as if pondering. At last, throwing back his

head he neighed joyfully and trotted forward, as if he surely

recognized his old master, who now patted him as if he welcomed a human

friend.

It was a family reunion, for Emile, leading his prize back, amid his

admiring companions, quickly told his story in brief to his captain,

who bade him to lead Baldy over to Goldspur. There was no time to

unharness the dog, nor any need of doing it; for as soon as Baldy was

near enough, the dog’s tongue was as active as his tail. While one end

of the animal was busy in licking the horse’s muzzle, as in old

friendship, the other terminal was wig-wagging, as if a sailor boy were

signalling “I’m glad to see you.”

It was many minutes before the Germans, further back, could unlimber a

gun on the narrow road, point it at the Belgians and send shrapnel

among them. By this time, however, the machine-gunners had made good

their retreat, according to orders. The dogs pulled off the light

Belgian artillery and the whole army moved to the defence of Antwerp.

Emile’s battalion was soon out of range of the enemy, who wasted his

shells in vain.

It would be a sad story to tell in detail of the fall of Antwerp.

Against the overwhelming numbers, with few or no allies to help, and

the heavy siege guns of the Huns in activity, day and night, the

Belgians were no match for their foes, and the Germans entered the

city.

Two mighty heroes rose out of the Belgian commonwealth during this

awful, desolating war. One was that of Cardinal Mercier—bravest of the

brave. The other was King Albert. He lived up to his colors, for in the

Belgian flag, the king’s color is black, standing for constancy, wisdom

and prudence. Later, when the Americans had reached Belgium, Albert

rode with his queen, Margaret, into Ghent and Brussels.

What happened later, to Emile, and Baldy, and Goldspur, is told in his

letter, from Queen Wilhelmina’s dominions, to his boy friend in Ghent.

“We are interned in a large camp in Gelderland, with British marines

and sailors in one part and the Belgian army men in another. Baldy is

rented out to a Dutch farmer near Nijkerk, till the war is over. The

Dutch commandant lets me have Goldspur, and being our mascot, is a

great favorite with all the men. A prisoner’s life is dull and

tiresome, and we can only wait for victory, which must surely come.

Queen Wilhelmina’s government has cared for a quarter of a million of

our Belgian civilians and Holland spends one fifth of all her revenue

in feeding them. Our people are building a splendid memorial of

gratitude, at Amersfoort, and I am glad of it. One of our boys got hold

of the words and music of an American song, and now the whole camp has

learned to sing ‘The Yanks are coming,’ and I believe they’ll come,

even beyond the Rhine.”

And they came, and of the three sons of the story-teller (who was

himself one of Lincoln’s and Grant’s soldiers, a veteran of ’63), one

was there; and to his grand children, these Belgian tales—mostly of the

kind that have fairies in them—were first told. In these “Belgian

Fairy” and wonder tales, we shall learn about the colors of the flag,

and the national motto, and other things that, it is hoped, will make

us Americans love Belgium the more, and all of us, at some time, see

the country itself.

The little folks in wooden shoes have not forgotten how the American

children sent to them a ship load of Christmas presents. Nor should we

fail to remember that Belgium is one of our fatherlands, whence came

the people who made the first homes in the four Middle States. The

first white children, born in New York State, were of Belgian parents.

Not all the stories in this book are fairy tales, but all tell of

wonderful flowers, animals, inventions, people, things, and happenings,

if not of dragons, ogres and lovely little fairy folks, who do

astonishing things. In Belgium, neither fairies nor men are anything

but industrious, so the fairies work hard always.

This is our preface.